


Listen Closely

by SidheLives



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Cat and Mouse, Dark Brotherhood Questline, F/M, Subterfuge, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:14:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26591995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SidheLives/pseuds/SidheLives
Summary: Cicero was dangerous, there was no question about that. A sweet wine which sneaks up behind you and knocks you out before you even feel the vapors of intoxication.Best to be avoided.-He watched her study him with the same concentration that he had her. Clever. Quiet. A well-practiced knife in the moonlight. She had not been drawn in by Astrid’s saccharine talk of family and would be equally resistant to his own malfeasance.She should be watched closely.
Relationships: Cicero/Female Listener (Elder Scrolls), Cicero/Listener (Elder Scrolls)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 43





	1. Sweet Mother

" _ What is the music of life _ ?" The door's whispering voice trickled through her mind like the vibration of a struck gong and sent a pleasurable shiver down her spine.

"Silence, my brother." Her voice was low and textured like velvet. The taste of the words was sweeter than the naive, eager blood of a young soldier, more appealing and indulgent than a child lost in the wood.

" _ Welcome home _ ." The door drifted open without a sound and she stepped into the dark portal. Behind her the door silently sealed again, cutting off the bright glow of moonlight and reducing the light in the passage to a reddish glow emanating from the base of the stairs. Diem ran her fingers along the cold stone wall as she descended into the sanctuary, feeling its imperfections snag against the pads of her fingers.  _ Sanctuary. _ A fitting name for this den of murderers she had come to roost in. The nights and weeks and months which preceded her arrival blurred in a disorienting haze of blood and exhaustion, her childhood in the hills of the Reach more a fading memory each moonrise. Things were crisp again, memories etched into stone by purpose. Before she had merely been surviving, now she was living. 

Although, perhaps  _ living _ was the wrong word. 

Diem could taste Beitild's blood still, the sharp tang of the woman's bitterness lingering on the back of her tongue like a well-aged wine. It seemed nothing improved the taste of a victim like knowing you'd get paid for the trouble of eating then. Rounding the doorway into the sanctuary's first chamber where Astrid tended to skulk, she found it empty.  _ Curious _ . As she advanced into the room, eyes skimming the map spread out over the table and the gleaming coins scattered across it, her keen ears picked up agitated voices rising up to her from deeper in the sanctuary. Perhaps Arnbjorn had threatened to eat someone again, though the voices seemed too loud for such a recurrent conflict. Perhaps he had finally followed through.

"But the Night Mother is mother to all. It is  _ her _ voice we follow,  _ her _ will. Would you dare risk disobedience and surely  _ punishment _ ?" The voice was unknown to her but familiar in a way that squirmed at the back of her memory. There was a dark thread, a shadowed blade slipped between the ribs of that final word that echoed the darkness in Diem's own, unbeating heart and intrigued, she slunk into the great chamber like a cat. It took no great effort to slip into the room without attracting any attention, her own stealth assisted by the fact that everyone's attention was locked on the newcomer, and Diem found her own attention pulled to his flamboyant red and black ensemble.  _ The jester from the road _ . She recognized him immediately and felt foolish for not doing so from his voice alone.  _ Transporting the body of his mother. _ Her eyes brushed over the enormous crate behind him. Not  _ his _ mother, but  _ the _ mother. The Night Mother. A shiver trickled down her spine.

"Keep talking, little man, and we'll see who gets punished," Arnbjorn growled, aggressively stepping towards the man.  _ Deep, bitter porter. A drink to be endured rather than enjoyed _ . Diem let out an annoyed exhale through her nose. The dog always sat at Astrid's feet, her ever obedient pet, and barked at anything he didn't understand, which was most things because he was an imbecile. Diem had quickly learned that he was toothless, spitting backless threats.

Festus, ever a voice of reason, interrupted the hound's yapping. "Oh, be quiet you great lumbering lapdog. The man has had a long journey, you could at least be civil."  _ Sweet, acrid sipping brandy with earthy notes of oakmoss _ . He gave the jester a respectful nod. "Mister Cicero, I for one am delighted that you and the Night Mother have arrived. Your presence here signals a welcome return to tradition."

_ Cicero _ . That was his name.

"Oh, what a kind and wise wizard you are, sure to earn our lady's favor." Cicero cackled, returning the nod.

Astrid gestured with one hand for silence and put on an extravagant smile, but Diem could see the poison in her eyes and in the severe straightness of her spine. "You and the night mother are of course welcome here, Cicero, and you will be afforded the respect deserving of your position as Keeper."  _ Sweet summer mead. Ripe wheat and tart berries _ . Her voice was like honey, and like honey could catch and trap hapless flies that flew too close. "Understood, Husband?" Astrid hissed at Arnbjorn and he growled, but obediently stepped back from Cicero, crossing his arms petulantly. Diem suppressed a snicker at how easily he was brought to heel, focusing instead on that title:  _ Keeper _ . She had never heard of such a thing, but Astrid seemed to know it, and by her tone, it was clearly a prominent position. Diem's brow furrowed, she did not like not knowing things.

Cicero capered in place, looking joyous. "Oh, yes, yes, yes! Thank you, thank you, thank you."

"But make no mistake," Astrid cut him off, voice hard. " _ I _ am the leader of this Sanctuary. My word is law. Are we clear on that point?"

Stilling, Cicero met Astrid's steely gaze with one of his own. "Oh, yes Mistress. Perfectly. You're the boss." Satisfied, Astrid sharply turned her back on him to address the others, catching sight of Diem as she did. Behind her, Cicero's lips kept moving and Diem seemed to be the only one who heard his hissed, "Oh, yes. You're the boss,  _ for now _ ."

Diem studied him more closely. There was an intelligent, malicious gleam to his eyes that belied the madness demonstrated by his manner and voice. He should be watched, she decided, and not taken lightly, as that was so clearly what he desired.

"Winter, you arrived just too late for the excitement I'm afraid." Astrid addressed her by the name Diem had given her, the name she always gave when circumstances necessitated providing one. "Since you missed the formal introduction let me introduce you to our newest arrival." She gestured for Diem to come closer and she did so warily, pulling her black cloak tighter around her form. "This is Keeper Cicero. He has brought the Night Mother from Cheydinhal as the Sanctuary there has fallen. Cicero, this is Winter, our newest sister."

Diem saw the moment he recognized her, his eyes and grin widening "Wait, oh wait. I know you! Yes, yes. From the road! Cicero never forgets a face."

Astrid glanced between them. "You've met?" She asked blankly. 

Diem let her expression reveal nothing, her features impassive. "He had trouble with his wagon." She replied simply. 

Cicero bobbed up and down with delight. "And you helped me! You helped poor Cicero! You talked to Loreius, got him to fix my wheel! Oh, you may have pleased me, but you have surely pleased the Night Mother. And our mother, she will never forget."

"You’ve completed your contracts?" Astrid asked, her body language clearly indicating she was done speaking to the jester. Out of the corner of her eye Diem watched for Cicero’s reaction to this dismissal, and found him seemingly unaffected by it, his attention entirely focused on her, an eerie smile plastered across his lips.

"I have."

"Good. Report to Nazir then come see me, I have something special for you." With a sharp nod, Astrid left, heading back up the stairs and leaving Diem alone with Cicero, who was continuing to study her with poorly veiled intensity.  _ Human. Imperial by the shape of his jaw and nose. Approaching middle age. A wine, something heady and complex. _ Diem categorized him quickly, as she did with all mortals. She, of course, had no intention to sample their flavors; it was more a mental exercise, an assessment of danger and manner of approach. Cicero was dangerous, there was no question about that. A sweet wine which sneaks up behind you and knocks you out before you even feel the vapors of intoxication. 

Best to be avoided.

His eyes gleamed with recognition of her examination. "Truly a pleasure to meet you,  _ Winter _ ." There was a wink in his voice, a shared joke where none existed, and Diem felt the tendons in her neck tighten in response to his unexpected clarity.  _ A coincidence _ , she told herself as she rolled her neck, loosening the muscles and attempting to appear nonplussed by his tone.

“An honor,” she responded shortly. She could hear him giggling behind her as she departed.

“Nazir.” She called across the room to him as she entered. He looked up at her with a half-smirk.  _ Spiced brandy. Sweet with a harsh smoky aftertaste. _

“I hear whispers that the population of Skyrim is decreasing at an alarming rate. Excellent work, but I only pay for the ones I give you.” He raised an eyebrow at her, looking almost impressed, and held out a weighty coin purse. “Did Astrid tell you about the special job she has for you?”

“Only to see her after you.” Diem tucked the purse away in a pouch on her hip, lips curling into a slight smile. Nazir's apathy towards the lives of others and his general world weariness was endlessly relatable. It made her feel more  _ human _ , for lack of a better term, and eased back the guard she consistently wore around others.

“It will be more complex than the ones I give you, to be sure. Just don’t screw it up or die.” He leaned back in his chair looking amused.

Diem crossed her arms and looked unimpressed. “I already died once, all it did was make me angry.” Nazir laughed. She tipped her head back towards the Sanctuary's main chamber. "What do you think of our new friend?"

His face sobered. "I don't like mimes, minstrels, thespians, acrobats, jugglers, troubadours, or tumblers. Flutists give me a headache. I particularly hate jesters. As a rule, I'm also not crazy about the corpses of old women. For the Night Mother, I'll make an exception. But Astrid is the mistress I serve."

"They don't seem to be fond of each other." Diem offered probingly. Nazir was a professional, but he was also a vicious gossip, a fact she attempted to exploit whenever possible.

"We have our own way of doing things here and Cicero's arrival could be perceived as a challenge to that. Astrid's feathers are just a bit ruffled at the moment. I get the impression she didn't actually expect him to show up." He shrugged. "Listeners and Keepers are things of the past."

"What  _ is _ a Keeper? Astrid used the title as if I should be impressed." Diem raised a brow.

"A Keeper maintains the Night Mother’s corpse as a conduit for her undying spirit to communicate with the Listener. Of course, there is no Listener currently, perhaps that’s why he’s mad." He shook his head dismissively. "Gabriella has a library of tomes on the old ways, ask her if you're interested." He shrugged again.

Gabriella.  _ Sweet white dessert wine complimented best by rich, dark chocolate. _ "I'll do that." She patted the coin purse. "Will you have more for me to do later?"

"So bloodthirsty." Nazir laughed again. "Yes, I should, once you finish the job for Astrid. Speaking of, you should get to it. You know how our Mistress detests waiting."

Diem gave him a steely look, but did not protest, turning to leave without another word. She may have hated to be told what to do, but she loved killing more.


	2. Sweet Mother

" _ What is the music of life _ ?" The door whispered lovingly: an invitation, a welcome, a veneration. 

It knew who had come.

_ The music of life? _ He giggled, the sound haunting in the silent, darkened grotto.  _ The squelch of a blade sinking into warm flesh. The final conceding exhale of a struggling victim. Laughter. _

"Silence, my brother." He cooed to the door, the appropriate password received via letter months prior.

" _ Welcome home _ ." The door slid back to reveal the bleak stone interior of the passage.

Cicero gave a dark chuckle and gently ran his hand over the precious wooden crate beside him. "I'll only be a moment, Mother. Don't wander off while I'm gone." He cackled at his own joke, then stepped into the Sanctuary. The door silently sealed behind him, extinguishing all light, but he didn't need to see to know there was another in the passage. He ducked below the extended blade which had been intended for his throat and pressed his back to the wall, planting a firm kick to the attacker's stomach with the flat of his foot. He did not, after all, wish to injure who was surely one of his new siblings in darkness. The blades hidden in the pointed toes of his boots were not for them. A feminine grunt struck his ears as the other struck the opposite wall. "Peace, Sister." Cicero crooned, tone tinged with amusement. "For we share a mother and she would not have us fight."

"Who are you?" She spat. As his eyes adjusted to the darkened hall, he could see the fury in the woman's eyes. Whoever she was, she was not used to being caught off guard, and it appeared he had made her angry. He resisted the urge to laugh at her. 

"It is only Cicero, come as I said I would." He offered instead of laughter. 

The woman straightened up and inhaled sharply through her nose. "The Keeper."

"Yes." He giggled the word, stretching it like taffy through his teeth.

"And The Night Mother—" 

Was that fear he heard in her voice?  _ How interesting _ . "She is here. Cicero will require some help to bring her inside, I'm afraid."

"Of course. Won't you come inside, Keeper?" She turned her back to him: a show of trust, or perhaps foolish bravado. A flash of anger rushed through his mind and his hand itched for a blade. The disrespect in this greeting would not go forgotten.  _ But not now, Cicero. Not now. Must get Mother safe and sound. _ He followed her into the light of a small chamber and watched as she shouted down a deeper flight of stairs. "Arnbjorn, dear. I require your assistance."

Cicero took a moment to examine the room. Shabby, rough, and dank, not at all like the Sanctuaries he had been forced to flee in Cyrodiil. _But better than the ruin far to the North._

"I am Astrid, leader of the Dark Brotherhood here in Skyrim." Her eyes were on him again and in the light he could see they were green, like new leaves or stomach bile.

"Oh, Mistress Astrid, it is a pleasure, thank you for the  _ warm _ welcome." He beamed at her.  _ Oh no, Cicero will not forget the knife in the dark, Mistress Astrid, or your fear of the Night Mother. _

A man, burly and covered in white hair, appeared at the top of the stairs. With him, he carried an acrid scent, and Cicero surreptitiously sampled the air. A werewolf.  _ More and more interesting _ . "You called?"

"Yes, dear. We have a… new arrival." Astrid laid a hand on the man's bicep in a familiar fashion, gesturing with her eyes at Cicero. "Send Festus to me and gather the others below. I will explain once everyone is together."

With the Night Mother's carefully boxed sarcophagus safely transported deep into the sanctuary, Astrid had proceeded with introductions. It was a strange little family, this broken, dismembered limb of the Brotherhood.  _ Cut off, twitching but dying, blood pouring from the wound _ . Cicero shrewdly examined them as Astrid explained his presence. None but the wizard had shown any acceptable reverence for the Mother or her dutiful Keeper.  _ It will be remembered _ , the thought sliced sharp as steel through his mind. The wolf did not like him, he could tell from the furious glances to which he feigned ignorance, and Astrid was more and more obviously displeased by the Night Mother's proximity; the others seemed ambivalent to his presence.  _ Astrid has led them astray, corrupted and diseased, oozing vile puss _ . The Night Mother would set it right. She would cure her children. If only she would speak to him, he would be her avatar, her hand, her—

"What are we supposed to do with the corpse?" Arnbjorn grumbled, eyeing the crate suspiciously.  _ Disrespect. Disrespect. Disrespect. _ Cicero studied the brute. Knife to the thick muscle of the thigh to slow him and cripple his reach, then dancing slashes to his back, bleed him out.  _ Unless he transformed. _ Running would be the best plan of approach if that were to happen.

“The Night Mother will be placed in the oratory. No one has used it for years, so it shouldn’t upset anyone’s routine.” Astrid decreed, pointing up to the delicate stained glass window.

“Fine. As long as I don’t have to see it.” The dog’s voice dripped with contempt.

One of Cicero's eyes began to twitch. "Such impertinence. Didn't anyone teach you to respect your mother?" His eyes flashed to Astrid, taking in her calm expression.  _ Never Dishonor the Night Mother _ . The tenet rang like a bell in his skull. Things had fallen far indeed if such flagrant recalcitrance went without rebuke.

Arnbjorn scoffed. “I ate my mother. That thing you got in the box has nothing to do with me.”

_ Liar. Filthy dirty lies lies lies. _ The grinding of his teeth echoed in Cicero’s ears. "But the Night Mother is mother to all. It is  _ her  _ voice we follow,  _ her  _ will. Would you dare risk disobedience and surely  _ punishment _ ?" 

"Keep talking, little man, and we'll see who gets punished." Arnbjorn took a threatening step towards him and Cicero’s blade hand twitched restlessly.  _ Cut out his tongue, that would cease his barking. _

"Oh, be quiet you great lumbering lapdog.” Festus snapped, his aged voice cutting through the violent tension. “The man has had a long journey. You could at least be civil. Mister Cicero, I for one am delighted that you and the Night Mother have arrived. Your presence here signals a welcome return to tradition." He nodded reverently.

Cicero preened, returning the gesture. That was the appropriate tone, the respect that his mother deserved. "Oh, what a kind and wise wizard you are, sure to earn our lady's favor."

Astrid now acted, cutting off the pleasantries with a wave of her hand. She smiled at him so widely Cicero imagined the sound of her skin creaking with the effort.  _ More lies, false smiles, razors in her lips. _ "You and the Night Mother are of course welcome here, Cicero, and you will be afforded the respect deserving of your position as Keeper." She cast a warning glance at the white-haired hound. "Understood, Husband?"  _ Husband. Lapdog. Must take him out for walkies so he may do his business. _ Laughter bubbled up through Cicero's chest as the beast reluctantly stepped back.

Such was his amusement that he danced, feet remembering the steps from some event long since forgotten. "Oh, yes, yes, yes! Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Astrid's smile fell away like rotting flesh.  _ Stitch it on so it will stay. Make her always wear the toothy grin.  _ "But make no mistake, I am the leader of this Sanctuary. My word is law. Are we clear on that point?" Her eyes were hard and Cicero stilled at the challenge issued by the look.  _ Viscous little bird thinks she is frightening. How easily her pretty neck would snap with hands around it tightening. _

One corner of his mouth tilted up in a wicked smirk. "Oh, yes Mistress. Perfectly. You're the boss." Astrid arrogantly pulled her chin up, assured by his words, and turned her back on him for the second time. “Oh, yes. You’re the boss,  _ for now _ ,” he hissed under his breath, eyes narrowing. How easy it would be to plunge a dagger between the blades of her shoulders, slightly to the right to avoid the spine, and straight into her heart.  _ Patience, Cicero. Six to one are terrible odds. _

"Winter, you arrived just too late for the excitement I'm afraid. Since you missed the formal introduction let me introduce you to our newest arrival." _Seven. Not six._ He corrected, as Astrid addressed a late arrival, gesturing to him with one hand. "This is Keeper Cicero. He has brought the Night Mother from Cheydinhal as the Sanctuary there has fallen. Cicero, this is Winter, our newest sister."

The woman had a brooding, familiar aura and he scrutinized her features: burnt brunette waves framing a deathly pale face, and reflective, slit pupil, red-orange eyes.  _ A vampire _ . More newly deceased than the un-child, still wearing the habits of life. He knew her, he realized with a widening smile. "Wait, oh wait. I know you! Yes, yes. From the road! Cicero never forgets a face." The woman’s brows dropped imperceptibly. She did not appreciate the recognition.

Astrid’s gaze took in both of their reactions with a slight frown. "You've met?" 

"He had trouble with his wagon," Winter responded, her voice flat, giving nothing away.

He rose up and down on giddy feet. "And you helped me! You helped poor Cicero! You talked to Loreius, got him to fix my wheel! Oh, you may have pleased me, but you have surely pleased the Night Mother. And our mother, she will never forget." What wonderful happenstance to find such a coldly sympathetic individual was among these wayward brethren. As she had on the road, the vampire was cautious in her word and expression, and like then, Cicero found this obfuscation fascinating. He flagrantly watched her as she and Astrid conversed, his piercing attention picking up the infinitesimal changes in her face and body language. She was very good, but not as good as him.  _ She does not trust Mistress Astrid, is not entrenched in her guile as the others are. The name feels wrong, something worn like a hat, not original to her person. _

Astrid departed with no further acknowledgment of Cicero’s presence, and Winter’s eyes met his own. He watched her study him with the same concentration that he had her.  _ Clever. Quiet. A well-practiced knife in the moonlight. _ She had not been drawn in by Astrid’s saccharine talk of family and would be equally resistant to his own malfeasance. She should be watched closely. 

He chuckled under his breath. "Truly a pleasure to meet you,  _ Winter _ ." He stressed the name and watched her muscles stiffen at the emphasis.  _ Caught you, whoever you really are _ . He felt laughter tighten the flesh around his eyes as she quickly attempted to smooth away her telling reaction with a roll of her long, pale neck.

“An honor,” her teeth snapped around the words and she did not meet his eyes, turning and all but fleeing from his scrutiny. As she did giggles erupted from his mouth, chasing her flight deeper into the Sanctuary.

_ This would be great fun. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm enjoying Cicero's POV very much. It's a delicate balance writing from the perspective of crazy people, and sometimes self reflective in the most unsettling ways 🤣


	3. Send Your Child

Astrid was always wound as tight as a death shroud, but now she seemed ready to snap. Her back was rigid, tendons standing out prominently on her proud neck, pulse pounding like a drum. The furious rate of her pumping blood was distracting and made Diem's mouth water despite being freshly fed. Astrid was speaking to her, praising her excellent handling of the contract.  _ Focus _ . She took a breath, willing her attention away from Astrid's tantalizing veins to her words.

"Now, I need your assistance with a matter of a more… personal nature." Astrid was unaware of Diem's momentary sanguineous preoccupation, so intent on her own obvious anxiety that inattention did not occur to her.

“Is something wrong, Astrid?” Diem asked innocently, cocking her head to one side. It was something to do with the Night Mother, she was sure. The woman had been skirting around the Keeper and the Unholy Matron ever since they arrived, suspicious glances and clenched fists speaking more than words could about her fear of the pair.  _ Astrid needs things Astrid’s way, _ she thought playfully. She had never fully trusted the woman, being kidnapped will do that, but learning more of the old ways had twisted her mistrust into disdain.

Astrid threw a glance over her shoulder to the downward stair. "It's Cicero." 

_ Of course _ . Diem suppressed any reaction to this confirmation, nodding encouragingly. "What about him? Is he attempting to redecorate?"

The woman ignored Diem's attempt at humor, continuing in a furtive, hushed tone. "Ever since he arrived, his behavior's been... Well, erratic would be an understatement. I do believe he is truly mad."

Diem nodded a tacit agreement to this statement, keeping her doubts to herself. Her own covert observations of Cicero belied the drooling insanity he performed for knowing eyes. He certainly wasn't entirely  _ sane _ , but who among those who prayed on their fellows was?

"But it's worse than that." Astrid's eyebrows raised almost to her hairline. "He's taken to locking himself in the Night Mother's chamber and talking. To someone. In hushed, but frantic tones. Who is he speaking with? What are they planning? I fear treachery."

Diem blinked wide eyes at her.  _ Perhaps she is not so blind as she appears _ . Treachery against Astrid she could believe, but from who? All but perhaps the wizard seemed zealously devoted to her, but would he risk the woman's wrath? It seemed unlikely. "Astrid, are you perhaps being a little… paranoid?"

Astrid gave a slight nod. "Maybe so, but healthy paranoia has saved this Sanctuary before, and my gut's telling me that demented little fool is up to something." Diem could not disagree with Astrid's gut. She had seen Cicero speaking to those who would have him, probing with questions about the Sanctuary and Astrid herself. It was a game she had been raised to play: to be present but unobtrusive, to speak casually but with careful intention so that every word gleaned information and planted seeds, to manipulate trust in others while sharpening knives behind their back. Cicero was very good, but not as good as her. He had not approached Diem herself, but she had caught his shrewd eyes following her as she moved about, perhaps estimating her in a different way than the others. Astrid leaned in, voice dropping lower. "You must understand. If Cicero is turning the others against me...  _ against us _ ... Our Family would not survive such a division."

_ Us. Very clever Astrid _ . There was no "us" between the two of them, but as a ploy to gain her sympathy, her agreement, it was a good tactic: that fragrant honey she exuded once again oozing out to attract flies. "What do you want me to do?" Astrid could not have wanted something from her any more clearly if she had been on her knees begging.

Astrid's eyes lit up. "Dear sister," the cloying sweetness dripped from her lips. "I need you to steal into that chamber, and eavesdrop on their meeting."

And there it was. Astrid didn't want to get her hands dirty. If there were a conspiracy and Diem were to be discovered, it would be her blood congealing on the floor, not Astrid's. Luckily for Astrid however, Diem was curious about this clandestine meeting and had no fear of death. “How do you suggest I do that?”

“It'll be no use clinging to the shadows. They'll see you for sure. No, you need a hiding place. Somewhere they'd never think to look.” A devilish look came over Astrid’s features, lips curing into a poisoned smile. “Like inside the Night Mother's coffin.”

Diem stiffened. She had underestimated Astrid, she suddenly and belatedly realized. This request was not merely keeping her hands clean,  _ it was a test _ . It had been naive of Diem to assume Astrid was blind to the goings-on of the acolytes, that her cold manner with Astrid and her research into the guild’s history would go unnoticed. Astrid may have been power-hungry and self-serving, but she was not a fool.  _ Oh, you are wicked, Astrid. If I refuse to help you out of respect for the Night Mother I prove my disloyalty to you.  _ Diem smirked, an acknowledgment of the sliver of respect earned by Astrid’s conniving mind. “How perfect, no one would ever suspect a listener within the coffin itself.”

Astrin gleamed triumphantly. "Exactly. Now quickly, hide yourself and listen. If that simpering fool thinks he can take this Sanctuary from me he has another thing coming, Keeper or no. As does whoever is helping him." Her voice was like jagged broken glass, deadly and dangerous. "Anyone who is a threat to this family will be ripped out like the parasite they are."

Diem slipped past Astrid and down the stairs without a word of response.  _ Some parasites cannot be removed without killing the host _ , she pondered the woman's choice of words.  _ Is that how far you will go, Astrid? To sit atop a throne made of our bones? _

As she moved briskly through the central chamber, Diem remained attentive to the sounds of the others scattered about the Sanctuary: Arnbjorn's hammer pounding at the forge, the  _ snicker-snack _ of Veezara's blade practice, and deeper in, quieter, the faint sound of a pestle striking mortar. She did  _ not _ hear the rollicking tones of the jester, a fact which made her muscles tighten in apprehension. Shrewd eyes keen for any sign of movement or flash of crimson, she slunk into the oratory and, finding it blessedly empty, up to the Night Mother's immense coffin. Her hands slid over the metal of the carapace, frigid even to her deathly chill skin. There were no obvious mechanisms for opening the hulking thing: no handles or catches, so Diem delicately ran her fingertips over the division of the doors until she felt a keyhole nestled in the profane wrought iron ornamentation. In a flash, Diem’s lockpicks were out and she delicately felt out the viscera of the lock. It was old but well made, more complex than those used by the cattle of Skyrim’s populace, but with a careful series of taps it clicked open just as satisfyingly. The doors swung open, propelled by an unseen force, and Diem found herself kneeling before the Bride of Sithis, staring up at the mummified cadaver of Lady Death herself. Standing slowly, Diem looked over the revered body of their lady. She had seen many corpses, made many herself, but they were always fresh, not like these ancient remains. There was something awe-inspiring in the antiquity of the corpse: somewhere close to one-thousand years dead, and she carried the weight of them all. 

_ Not the time for admiration, Diem. Tick tock tick tock. _ With a brisk shake of her head, Diem checked the doorway a final time for any sign of movement. "Forgive me, my Lady," she whispered, voice so low it evaporated into the air, then she stepped into the hulking crypt and pulled the doors closed behind her. 

She heard the _snap_ of the lock clicking back into place and her blood chilled. The seals of the coffin were flush, not allowing even a sliver of light to enter the sacred womb. _The darkness of the Void._ _Trapped forever in the Night Mother's embrace_ , but no, Astrid would pick the lock and get her out if she failed to return to her. _Wouldn't she?_ Perhaps this was the harpy's plan all along: eliminate the weak link in the chain of her family by sealing her away where no one would ever think to look. Diem dismissed the idea as soon as it occurred to her. If Astrid wanted her dead she would use her blades, not concoct an elaborate death trap. Her muscles relaxed and she felt her breasts brush the space's other deceased occupant. Diem leaned back, hitting the secured door. She reached out with tentative hands, letting her fingers brush over the shape of the Night Mother’s shoulders and arms, mere inches from her, then braced her arms against the chamber's walls. A sound, muffled by the metal around her, reached Diem's ears and she held her breath. _Humming. Cicero._ The door closed and locked behind his entering footsteps. Silence came over the room. _Is he waiting for his conspirator? Then why would he lock the door?_ Then a low, twisted chuckle slithered through the stillness.

“Are we alone?” Unlike the shrill, ostentatious resonance she was used to, Cicero's voice sat low in his chest, purring up through his throat like a panther.  _ And just as likely to rip your throat out _ . "Yes, yes! Alone. Sweet solitude. No one will hear us, disturb us. Everything is going to plan. The others, I have spoken to them. And they're coming around, I know it. The wizard, Festus Krex, perhaps even the argonian, and the un-child."

_ Festus, Veezara, Babette _ . So the silent conspirator was not one of them. Arnbjorn was out of the question, the loyal dog would never turn against his mistress, and Nazir refused to even speak to the fool. That left Gabriella. She was silent enough to slip into the room without Diem's keen ears detecting her footfalls, and of all the family she was singular in her devotion to the Dread Father and Unholy Mother.  _ But to cavort with the clown? _ Before Diem could reach any grand conclusions Cicero went on speaking. 

"What about you? Have you spoken to anyone? No? No, of course not. I do the talking, the stalking, the seeing, and the saying. And what do you do? Nothing!" With each word the cadence of his voice rose, ignited by ire to a furious crescendo. He inhaled sharply, cutting off the stream of exclamations with a deep breath. "Not that I'm angry. No never." His tone was apologetic, subdued and subservient in a way that didn't make sense if he was speaking to a hidden ally; and as he spoke, clarity washed over Diem:  _ Astrid's suspicions were wrong. _

"Cicero understands."

_ There was no traitor _ .

"Cicero always understands."

_ Cicero was not speaking to a member of the Sanctuary _ .

"And obeys."

_ Cicero was speaking to an older companion _ .

"You'll talk when you're ready, won't you?"

_ One who he respected and revered, and who would never respond _ .

"Won't you?"

_ The Night Mother _ .

"Sweet Night Mother."

Diem bit her tongue against the laughter which crept up her throat as she imagined the contorted sneer Astrid would have when she told her, when she found out that she was wrong. 

A chill suddenly wrapped around her flesh, like a tendril of ice encircling her body and catching hold of her face with dagger-like talons, and the humor was snuffed out. Diem found she was unable to move, breaths forced shallow by the invisible force clenching her chest. She felt fear for the first time in years as the force constricted further, cutting off the possibility of crying out. With a start, Diem realized she was able to see her fogged breath and her eyes were inexorably drawn to those of the Night Mother, which now burned with the light of red hot embers.

" _ Poor Cicero. Dear Cicero. Such a humble servant. But he will never hear my voice. For he is not the Listener. _ " The voice, black and thick as tar, did not emanate from anywhere, ringing in Diem's ears independent of any source. The sound echoed through her bones, exploring her deepest recesses the way a rat investigates a sewer. It was the most terrifying and yet alluring sound she had ever heard.

Diem could hear Cicero shuffling about the room, pacing. "Oh, but how can I defend you? How can I exert your will, if you will not speak to  _ anyone _ ?"

" _Oh, but I will speak. I will speak to you. For you are the one._ " The voice curled like a cat in a dark corner of Diem's mind, settling itself within her. Diem knew it would remain there as long as she existed. " _Yes, you. You, who shares my iron tomb, who warms my ancient bones. I give you this task - journey to Volunruud. Speak with Amaund Motierre."_ The place and the name latched onto Diem's memory, accompanied by the haunting glow of the Night Mother's burning eyes.

"Poor Cicero has failed you." The jester's voice was choked with devastation. "Poor Cicero is sorry, sweet mother. I've tried, so very hard. But I just can't find the Listener." He was getting closer, approaching the coffin, but Diem had little attention to spare for him as the icy grip around her tightened yet again, cutting off her breath.

" _ Tell Cicero the time has come. Tell him the words he has been waiting for, all these years: "Darkness Rises When Silence Dies.""  _ The words rattled around Diem's skull like loose bones, even as the presence in her mind receded into the niche it had claimed. The strangling sensation girdling her suddenly evaporated and Diem reflexively took a gasping breath, realizing her error only when Cicero's audible movements came to a sharp halt.

The doors behind her flew violently open and she stumbled back a step, pivoting on her heel and turning the slip into a defensive crouch as Cicero’s shrill cry shattered the tense stillness. “What? What Treachery!” He shrieked, light flashing off the dagger he held as his restless feet circled her. “Defiler! Debaser and defiler! You have violated the sanctity of the Night Mother’s coffin!” His voice dropped to a menacing growl and he stepped up to her, slipping the point of his blade under her chin. “Explain yourself. Or I shall consecrate our Lady’s tomb with your purloined blood.”

Defiance flashed in Diem as indignation rose like bile up her throat. She raised her chin, undaunted by the hatred in Cicero's sneer or the murderous gleam in his eyes. "Do not threaten me, fool. I have heard the voice of the Night Mother and you do not scare me." Her voice was dark and tinged with promised violence.

Cicero pulled back slightly in alarm as he looked into her smoldering eyes. "She... spoke to you?" He sounded unsure, then his brows pulled down and the blade pressed more firmly against her throat. "More treachery! More trickery and deceit! You lie! The Night Mother speaks only to the Listener! And there is... no... Listener!" He growled.

Diem leaned back as she felt the knife’s sharp point threatening to break her skin. “I speak no lie, Keeper. Mother told me to tell you that the time has come; to tell you “Darkness Rises When Silence Dies.”” She felt the weight in the words as they left her tongue, saw them strike Cicero making his eyes drop wide and body stiffen.

“She… she said that? She said those words… to you?” He snatched his blade back, examining Diem’s face with frenzied scrutiny. “But those are  _ the words _ . The Binding Words. Written in the Keeping Tomes. The signal so I should know; Mother’s only talking to sweet Cicero…” He fell silent and Diem watched the truth in her words stretch across his face into a grotesque smile, the fury burning in his eyes shifting to glee and he cackled madly. “Then… it is true! She is back! Our Lady is back! She has chosen a Listener! She has chosen  _ you _ .” His voice again dropped to the purring coo he had used when speaking to his matron. “All Hail the Listener.”

_ The Listener. _

_ She was the Listener. _

Before Diem could consider this alteration in trajectory further, the far door of the chamber burst open and Astrid charged in, eyes ablaze. "By Sithis, this ends now!" She quickly took in the scene: Diem on one knee before Cicero, his dagger still naked in his hand. "Back away, fool! Whatever you've been planning is over." She placed herself between them, keeping one eye on the grinning jester as she looked over Diem, assessing her condition. "Are you all right? I heard the commotion. Who was Cicero talking to? Where's the accomplice?"

Diem opened her mouth to respond, but Cicero was quicker. "I spoke only to the Night Mother! I spoke to the Night Mother, but she didn't speak to me. Oh, no. She spoke only to her! To the Listener!" He gazed on Diem with awe, blade limp in his hand. "The silence has been broken! The Listener has been chosen!"

Astrid's attention flashed between Diem and the fool. “What in Sithis’ name is going on? Cicero said he spoke to the night mother… but she spoke to you?”

Diem pushed to her feet, dusting herself off. “He speaks the truth.”

“So Cicero wasn't talking to anyone else. Just... the Night Mother's body? And the Night Mother, who, according to everything we know, will only speak to the person chosen as Listener... just spoke. Right now... ...to you?" Diem could see the gears turning in Astrid’s head, slowly adding this new revelation into the jigsaw puzzle of her brain.

“Yes,” Diem responded simply. She glanced at Cicero and found his eyes on her. She didn’t like the crazed look in his eyes or the hungry tilt of his lips and quickly looked back to Astrid.

After cycling through a panoply of emotions so quickly Diem was unable to follow them Astrid's features settled on shock. "By Sithis. And... what did she say?"

"I must speak to a man named Amaund Motierre in Volunruud." The order still carried the gravity of command coming from Diem's lips as it had from the Night Mother, her authority echoing through her chosen. Behind Astrid, Cicero looked giddy, hopping from one foot to the other.

Astrid's eyebrows pulled down in thought. "Amaund Motierre? I have no idea who that is. But Volunruud... that I have heard of. And I know where it is…" she shook her head, eyes hardening. "No. No! Listen. You take your orders from me. Are we clear on that? The Night Mother may have spoken to you, but I am still the leader of this Family. I will not have my authority so easily dismissed." Her eyes flashed to Cicero's wicked grin and she scowled. She stepped closer to Diem, lowering her voice, but Diem had no doubt the fool heard every word as she continued. "This is all just too much, too fast. Go get some work from Nazir. I... I need time to think about all this. I'll find you when I'm ready to discuss the matter further."

_ Afraid, Astrid? _ Diem's lips curled into a vicious smirk. The Listener was a threat to Astrid's power, her position;  _ Diem _ was now a threat to those things, and she had no doubt Astrid would defend them to her last breath. "Of course, Mistress." She inclined her head a fraction and watched as some of the turmoil cleared from the other woman's honey brown eyes.  _ I'll dance to your tune, for now, _ she thought as Astrid curtly turned and went out the way she had come.  _ But this is not over. _


	4. Unto Me

He hummed as he walked. A joyful tune, words long forgotten, but the melody still there, lodged in his fractured mind like a pickaxe. His humming annoyed them, which Cicero found insurmountably humorous. J _ ust wait until they hear me sing _ , he giggled to himself between verses. The Sanctuary was always quiet, but not so quiet as Cheydinhal had been.  _ Eight lonely souls trapped in a tomb, but number nine will wake them up with his jaunty tune. _ He had been watching them, listening to them, speaking to them when he could. People were essentially locks, once you knew the parts and gave a little tap they sprung open. 

_ Smash the lock with a rock and get to what’s inside _ .

It wasn’t a perfect metaphor.

The point was that with the right prods and pokes these wayward children could be turned, could be cured. He just needed to learn the shape of their tumblers.

Arnbjorn and Astrid were terminal, too far gone to save, too violent and wary to manipulate. The Sanctuary’s mistress had decided Cicero was a danger before he even arrived and no amount of candied words would convince her otherwise.

The un-child, Babette, showed all 300 years of her existence in her caution, but she was not blind. She trusted Astrid, foolish as that was, but would easily turn with the tide. It was not possible to survive so long without always being on the winning side. Veezara, too, was not as pliable as Cicero would have liked, but would be shrewd enough to abandon a sinking ship before he was pulled down with it.

Festus Krex and the Dark Elf, Gabriella, was where his attention lingered. While they respected Astrid as their leader, the Night Mother was still their Mistress. Cicero merely needed time; to plant the seeds of discontent and wait for them to blossom. Then they would work to sway the others, Cicero needn't do more.

The undead creature who was definitely not named Winter was a difficult lock to pick. He had watched her watch him with blatant suspicion written in her every feature. She saw, or at least sensed, what he was up to as he moved around the others, probing and baiting them; but she was, for the moment, not his enemy.

The oratory was just how he had left it. He had expected no different. Cicero had carefully tracked their movements, and only Winter had set foot in the room since Mother had been placed there.  _ Unless they slip in while I sleep, careful tip-toes around the careful Keeper _ . Even the fresh dead one's visits had been brief and felt more borne of curiosity than any reverence for their dearest matron.  _ No respect, stripped away by Astrid's acrid bile _ .

But that would change, he felt certain.

Cicero locked the door behind him, and let a dark, self-satisfied chuckle spill from his lips. 

"Are we alone?" He quickly checked the second door, still locked as he had left it. "Yes, yes! Alone. Sweet solitude. No one will hear us, disturb us." 

He turned on his heel and capered closer to his mother. She was very old after all, must make sure she can hear. 

"Everything is going to plan. The others, I have spoken to them. And they're coming around, I know it. The wizard, Festus Krex, perhaps even the argonian, and the un-child." He felt his smile falter. 

"What about you? Have you spoken to anyone? No?" He snapped, old anger rising like acid in his gut. "No, of course not. I do the talking, the stalking, the seeing, and the saying. And what do you do? Nothing!" 

Cicero's lips snapped closed with a gasp.  _ Wicked tongue getting away from you. Tsk tsk tsk. _

"Not that I'm angry." He smoothed out his tone, ashamed at his lack of control. "No, never. Cicero understands. Cicero always understands. And obeys." 

He dropped his chin penitently and wrung his hands. Anxiety crept over him, the fear that she would never speak, not to him or to anyone else, that he danced upon a decaying stage, puppet strings snipped and flapping uselessly in the wind. "You'll talk when you're ready won't you? Won't you? Sweet Night Mother."

The nervous energy in him slid into his legs, inviting him to caper, but it was not the time for dancing. Instead, Cicero began to pace, back and forth, back and forth across the small room. 

"Oh, but how can I defend you? How can I exert your will, if you will not speak to anyone?" It didn't need to be him, after years the flame of hope that the Dread Matron would select him had faded to embers, infrequently nudged to life but dying still.

He forced his legs to be still, gazing up at the profane iron carapace which held his mother. "Poor Cicero has failed you. Poor Cicero is sorry, sweet mother. I've tried, so very hard. But I just can't find the Listener." He ran his hands over the familiar, cold designs of the coffin, a sob creeping up his throat.

Then he froze, and his blood ran cold.

His ear, so close to the sacred vault, caught the distinct sound of a gasp.  _ A breathing being, within the very bosom of the Unholy Matron _ . Rage boiled up, chasing the chill from his veins. In a flash there was a blade in his hand and the locked, sealed seat of the lady was flung open.

_ It is the Winter of our discontent.  _

If looks could have killed, the vampire would have burnt to ash in his sight. She stumbled backward as the doors ripped open, falling to a crouch and looking up at him, her elliptical pupils retracting to slits in the sudden bright light. “What!?” Cicero shrieked, his unsettled feet skittering around her, preventing any possible escape. “What treachery! Defiler! Debaser and defiler! You have violated the sanctity of the Night Mother's coffin!"

He slid the point of his dagger under the woman's chin. He felt the desire to wash the stones with the sanguineous essence of her life, felt it pushing at his wrist, but another desire, a cackling whisper at the back of his mind, stilled his hand.  _ Why? _ It asked. 

"Explain yourself." He growled, all mirth burned away from his voice. "Or I shall consecrate our Lady’s tomb with your purloined blood."

The shock cleared from her eyes, replaced by fierce defiance, and she lifted her chin away from his blade. "Do not threaten me, fool. I have heard the voice of the Night Mother and you do not scare me."

The threat in her words did not frighten Cicero, but the surety in her voice startled him and he recoiled. "She... spoke to you?" __

_ She lies. Cut her pretty throat and let her spew her falsehoods that way. _

Cicero's anger redoubled and he thrust his dagger harder against her throat, feeling the resistance of her skin against the blade. "More treachery! More trickery and deceit! You lie! The Night Mother speaks only to the Listener! And there is... no... Listener!"

The woman leaned back from him, leaving the naked blade hanging in the air. “I speak no lie, Keeper. Mother told me to tell you that the time has come; to tell you ‘Darkness Rises When Silence Dies.’”

Cicero's entire body went rigid. "She… she said that? She said those words… to you? But those are the words. The Binding Words. Written in the Keeping Tomes. The signal so I should know; Mother’s only talking to sweet Cicero…” 

She couldn't know the words, could not have discovered them, the keeping tomes burned with Cheydinhal; then how? How?  _ How? _

He pulled his knife away from her, studying her expression for any tell of deception. Her red-orange eyes burned with indignation and deeper, within her black as night pupils, a shadow of horror. He had only met Alisanne Dupre briefly, and his memory of her was fractured and colored with admiration, but  _ that look _ , the deep buried terror, had haunted her gaze. His sneer faded, lips pulling up and teeth coming together in a deformed grin and a perverted cackle spilled from his throat.

_ Pray pray pray to a dead woman and she delivers another _ .

“Then… it is true! She is back! Our Lady is back! She has chosen a Listener! She has chosen  _ you _ . All hail the Listener.” He purred, a shroud of reverence entering his voice.

The door behind him slammed open and Astrid’s voice screeched across the room. “By Sithis, this ends now!”

Cicero did not look up at Astrid, he had no attention to spare for the harpy. The Listener had been chosen. He had brought Mother to her, made it possible, he had not failed after all.

Astrid suddenly appeared in his line of vision, stepping between him and Winter, fire burning in her eyes. “Back away, fool! Whatever you are planning is over.” She glanced over her shoulder at the kneeling woman as she continued. “Are you alright? I heard the commotion. Who was Cicero talking to? Where is the accomplice?”

_ Accomplice? What a festering idiot _ . “I spoke only to the Night Mother,” Cicero interjected, drawing Astrid’s acrid gaze again. “I spoke to the Night Mother, but she didn’t speak to me. Oh no. She spoke only to her! To the Listener! The silence has been broken! The Listener has been chosen!” He did dance then, heels kicking up in a joyful jig.

Astrid, confusion and growing concern written in every feature, glanced between him and the kneeling Winter. She continued speaking to the woman, but her words faded into a dull hum as Cicero's attention refocused on the new Listener. 

_ What had the Dread Lady seen in her?  _

She was a Breton, like Alisanne Dupre before her, but unlike the previous Listener, she was not a fighter trained by necessity and vengeance. This one was an observer, a calculating stiletto in the night who watched and listened until the moment to strike was ripe.  _ A spy. Sneaky, slippery, sinister _ . Perhaps that was it: the Brotherhood was weak, crippled, bleeding out its final hours in a decrepit corner of the world. It didn't need a reckless warrior to suicidally charge forward, it needed to find its moment, its sliver of opportunity to creep away from danger and strike again from behind. The time for bombastic declarations of power had passed, subtle string-pulling was their only chance at survival. 

_ So Mother chose a puppeteer. _

Astrid's eyes on him caught Cicero's attention and he, at last, tore his eyes from Winter to refocus on the shrill woman's voice. "The Night Mother may have spoken to you, but I am still the leader of this Family. I will not have my authority so easily dismissed." She dropped her voice, as if to a whisper, but her voice echoed in the sparse chamber, easily making it to his ears. "This is all just too much, too fast. Go get some work from Nazir. I... I need time to think about all this. I'll find you when I'm ready to discuss the matter further."

Cicero giggled.  _ Declarations of power and bumbling subterfuge.  _ If he was any more mad he would have believed it a sign from the Night Mother herself confirming his suppositions.

He watched Winter's lips turn into a duplicitous smirk as she nodded respectfully to Astrid. "Of course, Mistress." The smile made her anomalous irises crackle with menace. Astrid’s expression returned to an arrogant sneer, ignorant either by choice or nature of Winter’s fraudulent deference, and she stomped out of the room with all the grace of a mammoth.

“Cicero.”

His head swiveled around to the Listener’s voice. The smirk had faded from her lips and she studied his gleeful grin with a hard expression of appraisal. He beamed at her. "Yes, Listener?"

Her eyebrows pulled down over her smoldering eyes. "I expect there will be no… differences of opinion regarding this development?"

He blinked at her in surprise. "Does the Listener doubt Cicero's devotion to the Night Mother?"

"Not at all. What I doubt is your loyalty to me."

_ Blunt when she needs to be. No skittering around the question. _

Cicero chuckled. "Our Lady is absolute, and so is my allegiance. She has  _ chosen _ you. To betray the Listener is to betray the Dread Mother herself."

Winter stared at him, as if with sight alone she could pluck out any threads of malfeasance in his person. "Good." She, at last, replied, then turned to leave.

Cicero watched her back as she walked to the door. “Oh, Listener.”

She turned and gave him a cautionary look, raised eyebrows acting as her response.

"I am  _ delighted _ to have the chance to work more closely with you."

The woman glowered at him and opened her mouth to retort, but something in his face seemed to still her tongue and her teeth snapped shut again. Her eyes flashed to the corpse of the Night Mother and Cicero wondered what thoughts _or_ _words_ passed behind her bronze eyes in that moment. 

"Thank you,  _ Keeper _ ." She punctuated his title, fangs flashing as she clearly annunciated each consonant. "It should prove interesting."

Her hair fanned out around her as she spun and exited the room. Cicero noted that it was not as dark as it first appeared, light catching on caramel strands nestled within the deep umber curtain.

He looked to The Night Mother. "Alone again, just the two of us. But not lonely anymore." He chuckled. "You chose well. She is a poisoned pin in a fine lady's hat. And not to worry, Mother, I will watch over her, as I watch over you. Yes," his eyes drifted back to the open doorway Winter had departed through. "Cicero will watch the Listener  _ very closely _ ."

**Author's Note:**

> Hope everyone enjoys! I'm having a lot of fun this one. I'm real proud of that killer (pun absolutely intended) opening.  
> Let me know your favorite line if you liked it! Comments give me life!  
> <3


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